Selective Memory

Gemini and I mutably intertwine; my sorrow is his sorrow, her sorrow is mine. My admiration of Gemini is a mysterious origin nevertheless bloodless hindrance.

"This man I met at a bus stop. He wore this disheveled suit and I wonder where his wife could be to allow him to wander about."

My sweetest, my protective shadow of dark wishes humbles for this distress; naivete is unspoken yet written for volumes.

"How do you feel about him?"

"I feel like crying when I see him."

I struggle thoughtless rainclouds, inevitable dismay of brainstorming; I sit without a black and white newspaper forecast, Leona reads me better than daily columns.

"You must feel a certain way about him."

Voiceless victimization is a haze I funnel dreary conquest hypnotizing emotions; appearances not of my own eyes, where is my vision? We mindlessly explore the core of spiritual integrity, an ending moon into another blistering sun; I misplaced my sunglasses. Paranoia no longer conditions me, paranoia no longer exists; paranoia is a population colliding into me; unfortunately I hear them talking.

The subway terminal is a great walk for the cat without a prairie. Along my way to another dream I am a barely awake royal purple tunic mini wrapping a body which is mine; not sure how much is actually alive. I watch myself tap a tumultuous rap of Colin Stuart's tie to the ankle shanking heels without shanking grills; black as a heart I choose not to undress the one night stand for a city which does not sleep. A bench is attractive, yearning energy of discovery beckons crows from trees to look upon me; I acknowledge my oncoming misery. He sits next to me, downtrodden garments hang from sorrow's curious body; he is an indescribable companion. I try to understand this whispering wild symphony composition; there is no control for instruments.

"Why is your head down?"

He barely speaks; his eyes address me to know him yet I cannot. Bluest oceans crash into me; red streaks of desired relaxation prove the herb is not enough for this insomniac. Out to drink a while I suppose; I catch a weary whiff of darkened ale from a halogen pub.

"Your wife lets you run about the streets?"

He glares into me; I feel the mental absence of a cemetery procession ending with dry eyes over the steel post railing behind a purple hydrant. Thus reminds me of quenched fire, The Beatles' Yesterday rounds the turntable from a second story window; the blaze must of been quite a sight for onlookers, I felt as one, this man might of punched a few for a few rounds. I thought of her worry for him; I worry for him.

"She does not remember me."

"How can she not?"

He looks away for a moment; I touch his collar, he turns back. I mumble a few phrases of what and what not guiding him to an oddly lit shop with a lavender suit presenting the store front window; the mannequin will not miss his attire. A man's fading coronas eclipse the nearing sun; he introduces us to a tailor.

"Is this what you like?"

"You look very........"

Sewing hands finish; I trail a sentence.

"Handsome!"

The tailor's lips do not move while speaking; how strange but tis the nature of the world I convince myself for a moment. My hands maneuver a silky royal purple Dior around his soft neck reminiscing baby swans' down feathers; I button this man into a preference if the choice is given. He is a sharp passionate man with wild fluffs of sandy beach strands shifting over his right Atlantic eye. Instinctive of a woman I feel a wrestling connection I hypnotically carry his blonde eye patch to the other side; I am lost inside another existence. He speaks little; his actions please the crowd of spectators cheering a prized boxer.

"How do I look to you...."

"You are the philanthropy of flower's dust from Nepal's treasured gardens."

Babylon grapes' tendency spirals a vine around this man's arm; I call him Monet, needless of a curator's interpretation. He is a sober sweetness and his muscles tender a thick skeleton. We walk to a summoned destination; we stop for a look at each other. His long bow, or tie, shies away from his softness; my sleeping hands straighten a vest woven by Italian insects. I am ticking ill coordination of a clock tower around the corner from a convenience station equipping holsters for dying jungles.

"Only my wife fixes my attire."

A familiar ice holds my hands; my tears fall for his chest.

"She must be infatuated with braggadocio. She must speak of you always. She must be the fire of a dragon for you."

"I think of her always."

"Do you care for her deeply?"

East coast shores do not compare to his island of East Asian seas brushing against the spirals of confusion all around me; his nose to my nose feels of children playing. My tears touch his lips quivering icicles; Monet kisses my painted cheeks. The lion's paws stiffen from an arctic vibration; he is a gentle carrier for a woman's unfortunate emotions. My voice comes from the ghost of radio frequencies changing channels for pop dances.

"She must depend on you. She must look to you for comfort and reliability. She must be lost without you. Do you look for her when she is lost?"

I do not want to mess his suit with my stormy drops nor does he wear a handkerchief; I chose for him not to, the appearance is heartbreaking handsomeness. His silence penetrates the center pf my shattering existence. A yellow hardshell turtle swims underground canals.

"You would never betray her would you? I feel for her so much. I know how much she needs you. Do you know how much she needs you?"

His strange smile drags me into an unholy present.

"She betrays me....."

My strange smile twists a tamarind ostrich mirroring laughter. I hide a handkerchief inside my unhooked garter; I am a quiet evil woman, how ever did this come loose? His tears create the same volume of puddles underneath us dampening a dead end terminal of cracked tiles and spray paint angst.

The taste of my lips is honey from the combs of snowy cherry blossom trees.